God or Simonist!
If you are able to predicts
Winning lotttery tickets
Not once, twice, thrice
But consecutively infinite times
This is outside the probabilities of luck
Not even of a genius mind capable to think
It goes beyond
The universal bound.
It is uncontested paranatural work,
A mark of a maker
Not only you have a divine power,
It transcends and goes more.
You are the divine of the divine
That luminescent and shines
An avatar in a body of human.
Because you are not predicting
In advance what is planned
Or set to happen
But what is to happen.
Without the things that makes it to happen
Gather momentum to take directions or form.
On the other hand
If you were able to predict
What was already been set to happen,
You are a clairvoyant
With cryptethesia mind,
exceptionally enlightened
But less of a divine,
A human,
At the leader apex/vertex pinned.
Supreme rarified,
Albeit, exemplified.
In other words
You are brilliant
Who reads what is not written
Senses feelings not expressed.
However if you tell in advance
Of events or combinations
Of numbers of a lottery ticket
That would hit a jackpot,
No one was aware of
But you had an inner knowledge
Or a hand to play,
You are a cheat
Guttersnipe, master of the street,
Undoubtedly the likes of Abiy
Who claims nature to defy
And be able to espy
Remote events on the fly
Before they catch people’s eyes.
A sectarian hate monger,
double tongued gospel preacher
Laced with requisite scienter
To intoxicate and combabulate
Guillible acolytes
For him to lead a deceitful life in comfort
At the expense of those foot soldiers
He cajoled them to live,
In house of cards,
Until the walls collapse,
Most of them would be trapped.
Till that moment comes though,
He is in command of a force,
Fearful of your wrath
They would do that which pleases thou.
And those acolytes in the club
Listening to his claptrap,
Who kyoodled and clapped,
And assisted him the mountain to climb
Now they turned to call him Beelzebub
As if they didn’t know the wasp
And served him as a nidus for him to nest.
No surprise, don’t people know these lot
Littering history roads as chloasma spots.
They are nothing but caterpillars,
With a single desire instinctively set
On how to fill in borborygmi guts.
Mirror image conspirators,
No worse no better
Than their grandmaster.
In a maths’ Metrix’s term
If they were to be deciphered
The value we get compared —
To the Diablo they now refer—
by a determinant cofactor,
The area of the red and green vectors
Which Is 1 (one),
Then turned 9 times bigger ballooned,
Bordering a prosopometamorphopsia shaped a figure.
